Child's Play
by SkyborneVeggie
Summary: Loki has seduced hundreds over the years, men and women alike, manipulating them into loosing their tongues and extracting the information he needs before casting them aside. Tony Stark will be no different. The leadup to Avengers 1.
1. Chapter 1

Seduction is but a child's game to Loki. He mastered the art of it centuries ago, ruthlessly using it to wheedle out his whims, his wants, his needs... He knows how to read people, knows how to play the part, how to transform himself into everything they'd ever dreamed of. It is a simple task really, as natural to him as breathing. Even for a philanderer such as Tony Stark. Men like him are no different from any other at heart, merely requiring a different method of attraction and entrapment.

There is something new, rising up on the earth. Loki knows this. He can feel it, almost _taste_ the force of it bubbling beneath the surface, unrealized, when he scrys the world of midgard. And Tony Stark lies at the center. He is the heart of this new entity, and if Loki wants to win this war then he needs to know. _What is it that is coming?_ He will beguile from him the information, overthrow it, and then all will know what fools they had been to neglect him.

* * *

It's curious, Loki thinks. He sits, perched atop a stool in a midgardian tavern in womanly form, listening to the dull patter of rain and brisk footsteps from the nearby window. Every once in a while the door swings open, letting in small bursts of frigid air and fragments of conversation from the passersby.

_…and don't forget about the... …to lower the opportunity cost by five percent… …no, not right now dear…_

So many tiny, insignificant people, moving about with such purpose. The mother, the actor, the lawyer, all with their own petty dreams. Do they not know how little their lives matter in the grand scope of the universe?

But it is no matter. There are more important things now to be done. Loki shakes herself mentally, pulling out of her thoughts and back to the task at hand. The target is still here, she notes with a glance. Good.

Her eyes glide over to Stark's across the bar as if just having noticed him, glittering with prospect as he acknowledges her gaze. She proffers him a wry smile, and he returns it. He would be here, she knew, on this celebratory day of fathers, in search of strong drink and a lithe body to rut against.

"Another please, thank you," she bids the bartender as Stark approaches. He slides up next to her.

"On me." He smiles, only a few cents flat of the charm that he is famed for, and slips down several notes of currency.

Loki smirks ruefully back at him. "Generous of you." He is handsomer in person than she'd gathered from her research, even with glassy eyes and cheeks flushed from the alcohol. Shame that that the same cannot be said for his wit. In the end, he is just like all the other sad little mortals, absorbed in the sentiment of a meaningless holiday. Loki lets out a small sigh of disappointment, misconstrued as melancholy, and raises her glass.

"To the incompetency of fathers," she says, and draws the cup to her lips. She eyes him over the rim, sipping quietly. This day means nothing to her, of course, and even if it did, she would never show _true_ vulnerability to someone so menial. But he will be looking, today, for an easy bodily comfort. And if she can add a shared bitterness to that, the feeling of being understood without having to say a word, _well_ then, he won't be able to resist.

And it seems to be working, because he slurs back, "You and me both, sweetheart," and copies her gesture. Loki takes the opportunity to lean towards him, resting her chin on folded hands.

"I would not be adverse to a… distraction," she purrs, looking up at him from beneath dark lashes. Stark laughs, a coarse, throaty sound that is dry from the spirits, but his dark eyes bore back down into hers.

"Cut right to the chase, don't you." The voice is warm in her ear, full of suggestion and possibility.

"Oh, Mr. Stark," Loki smiles, "But of course."

* * *

He doesn't kiss her until they are in the privacy of his home, kisses her with such fervor and misery that she almost feels sorry for him. _Pitiful creature_, she thinks, mirroring him to cover up her impassivity. But then he moves his mouth a certain way, and _oh_, the thought blurs away. She returns the favor, brushing back hotly with her tongue. The corners of her lips twitch upward as he groans against her open mouth. _You sought to best to God of Mischief?_

She smiles, amused. But she lets him push her down onto the bed, grasping at his belt buckle as they begin strip each other of their clothing. She ignores his expensive silk button-down for the most part, only undoing the first notch to press a wet tongue to his collarbone. This is an unknown variable to her, and although she is curious as to the power source that lies beneath, it is not essential to her plan, and she would not risk a negative reaction that could stall any progress with the man. She leaves it to him to keep or remove as he wishes.

Smirking up at him, she takes his now naked length in her palm. Yes, she thinks pleasedly as a gasp escapes his lips. Yes, he is far from the _least_ desirable of beings she has seduced over the years. And a skilled lover too, as he is proving to be.

_Yes_. Deft fingers part her cleft, and she trembles with the suddenness of it, mouth attaching itself to the angled planes of his throat. Yes, she will be enjoying this game.

* * *

It is several hours later, when the both of them are thoroughly used and spent, that she finally rolls off the bed and reclaims her scattered clothes. Stark watches her with mild half interest. He is still wearing his shirt, now rumpled and damp with sweat. "Something the matter?" Loki asks.

"Oh, no, nothing the matter." He cocks his head. "People just aren't usually so quick to up and leave." Loki hums noncommittally. So the women he beds try to prolong their stay as long as possible. They cling to this, the ambience of his wealth. They cling to him, the infamous Tony Stark. _Ah, the folly of the proletariat._ Her lip curls in distaste, but she hides it from him.

"I don't _do_ staying." She tosses her long waves over her shoulder as she zips up her dress. "It's not in my nature. However, if ever we should encounter each other again," she pauses again to throw her coat over her shoulders, "I would not be adverse to a… repetition, of this tryst. Perhaps under less dismal circumstances." She grins derisively at him, moving towards the far end of the room. "Good night, Mr. Stark." She closes the door behind her. Free from his sight, she sighs once, cheerily, before vanishing into the night air, leaving him alone in the dark with his afflictions.


	2. Chapter 2

The next few weeks take careful consideration and planning. She mustn't find Stark again so soon that it seems like more than a coincidence, but not wait so long that her time runs out. Not so soon that she is the next person Stark takes home, but not so long that he forgets her face.

Assuming he remembers it in the first place. But Loki as a woman (and in other forms as well, she has been told) is striking and tragically beautiful, and hers is a face not easily forgotten.

Much too depends on Stark himself, unaware though he is.

How often does he go out? It is less often now than his past would suggest, and he does not bed a woman every time.

What is his temperament? Is he his handsome, charming self or are his spirits low, the cracks in his armor shining through? The difference between reckless and self-destructive are nigh invisible to the common eye, but Loki is watchful, observant.

Stark oscillates, shallowly on the surface but wildly underneath, and Loki needs to find him at his lowest.

He needs Stark to grow accustomed to feeling vulnerable with him.

That is what will give him leverage.

* * *

It is a month and twelve days before the perfect opportunity presents itself.

Stark is inebriated, running his mouth with an arm around a beautiful blonde who attached herself to his side the moment he walked in. He can't be heard over the music, but his disposition can be read in the slope of his shoulders, in the drinks downed apace, in the waver in his smile.

Loki blinks herself into existence, out from the shadow of invisibility she'd hidden under these past weeks as she'd watched him, and positions herself across the room to be noticed.

Stark doesn't see her at first, preoccupied as his new "acquaintance" leans in and attaches her excessively bright, pink mouth to his neck. Loki takes the moment to sip at her drink, smirking to herself around the edge of the glass. The degree of Stark's predictability is almost amusing.

When she looks back up, his eyes are on hers.

Loki watches as a flash of confusion, recognition, then acknowledgement passes through his gaze.

She stares back for a moment.

Then she smiles, a touch dry, a touch mischievous, a touch arrogant. She inclines her glass toward him, and turns away.

* * *

Heated gasps brush her neck, skin feverish as he crushes her into the cold, hard granite of the kitchen counter, and climaxes.

Loki smiles as she untangles their limbs, breath hovering over the pair of fuchsia lips still stenciled across his throat. She pens down her number as she leaves, "for easy access," if ever he be in need of a quick lay.

* * *

And it all goes according to plan from there, for a while. Stark propositions at last (though she'd have preferred a call to a text. There is more to be gleaned from a voice than the mere words themselves, but such is the way of the world).

Loki arrives in a whirlwind of tousled hair, lips red and bitten. The door opens of its own accord, programmed, of course, to do so. A disembodied voice guides her down the hall, past the corridors of pretentious art and meritless design, and into the sitting room to reveal Stark, standing across the foyer with a glass of insipid human alcohol in his fist.

"Hey," he turns, a smile forming as his eyes travel over her form in appreciation. He is striking too, in his pressed suit and crisp white shirt.

Desire wells up in the pit of Loki's stomach. She'd like to take him apart like that, all clean lines and smooth planes, and reduce him to rougher, baser, truer nature.

Stark motions to her with his glass. "Care for a drink?"

Loki waves it aside. "Spare me the pleasantries, Stark." She cocks her head, gaze sharp and predatory. "There is no need for pretense here."

Stark does not move as she steps towards him. His eyes darken as she presses her breasts flush against his chest and jerks him down by the lapels. Brandy spills, staining rivulets down their clothing, but Stark doesn't seem to mind.

"I am here," Loki's lips ghost over his and she can feel his hardness press into her hip, "to fuck, and be fucked."

Something ignites in Stark's eyes then, and he crushes his lips to hers. He moans against Loki's open mouth, buckling forward as she rolls her hips against his straining erection.

"Bedroom," he gasps, she lets him walk her backwards in some direction.

The edge of a bed presses against her thighs and Stark tosses her down, stripping himself of his suit jacket with a single swift motion. Loki watches him, sprawled out enticingly amongst the sheets.

He moves over her, clothed hips flush against hers, propping himself up with one arm. He slides a hand through her hair, down her neck. Caresses his way across her breast, her waist, her thigh. She arcs suddenly, holding back a whine as he slides her dress up to brush at her lips through the soft fabric of her undergarments.

"You too," she breathes, struggling against herself. "You're still entirely dressed, dear." She reaches for him, undoing his first button as she's always done. Pressing a wet tongue to his collarbone, she begins to slip her hand down towards his belt buckle.

He catches her wrist.

Loki pulls back to quirk a brow at him, but when she sees the look in his eye she pauses.

There's something sharp there. Bitter, insular.

Stark leans back so she can sit, still never letting go of either her hand or her gaze. He gently uncurls her hand and flattens it against his chest. The edges of his artificial heart press into her palm, warm from its inner generation of power. It feels oddly intimate.

"Afraid of what you'll find, sweetie?" he murmurs, gaze betraying his casual tone. "Afraid to look into the light?"

Something coalesces in the back of Loki's mind then. Something still undefined, barely even the idea of an idea.

She dismisses it, scoffs, and tears her eyes away. She stares at her hand on his chest. "Of course not."

"You've been avoiding this," Stark argues.

"I didn't know if you'd mind." She wets her lips. Power trembles beneath her fingertips, and she longs to taste it. "I didn't want to cross some unspoken boundary." She can feel a button resting under the knuckle of her third finger. She draws her hand back to trace it slowly, contemplating the minute sensation of its tiny ridges against the pad of her forefinger.

She bites her lip and looks up at him through dark lashes, a look meticulously crafted for the sole purpose of seduction. Stark swallows the hook, head tilting back, eyes slipping shut. His lips part in a barely drawn breath.

"Do it," he whispers.

And Loki, softly, intimately, slips the button free.

How many women have done this, she wonders, slipping down the the next clasp. How many women have taken this from him, assuming their right to his privacy because they held an invitation to pleasure. _Loki_ did not steal it from him. He _gave_ this to her, granted her entry of his own volition.

Folds of fabric fall away, hanging loosely off his frame as she undoes the last clasp. Light struggles out mutely from the confines of his undershirt, and she makes to remove it. Stark shifts, helping her shrug him out of his garments.

Blue floods the room.

Loki blinks blindly into the light, eyes pierced by the sudden brightness. It is mesmerizing, even as her vision adjusts and the exhilarance fades into something more comprehendible.

She raises a hand between them. It hovers, not close enough to touch, but enough to _sense_. Blue bathed fingers curl and uncurl. _I want to know_, she realizes, peering down at the glow through the gaps in her fingers. _I want to learn._

"I've considered trademarking this color," she registers Stark's voice vaguely. "Stark Blue, I'd call it. But that might already be a thing, so..."

A quip. A jest to keep up his defenses, and armor himself from her. She needs vulnerability, so she offers a piece of her own.

"I wanted to be a scientist, once." It is not strictly a lie. Her slender fingers dance in the light. She wonders, for a moment, had she kept her usual form, how his hands might have looked in this illuminate azure hue.

But she would know that already, wouldn't she.

A shard of ice embeds itself in Loki's chest. She snatches her hand away. "Never mind that though."

Stark tilts his head. "Alright?"

"Fine," Loki clips, blanching inwardly at the sound of her tone.

_Patience_, she reminds herself. _Remember your objective_.

Forcibly, she turns her attention back to Stark. He is watching her, eyes curious, luminescent in the dark. His ruddy complexion is washed out by the light, and suddenly Loki realizes how tired he looks.

She'd always noticed, of course, that was one of the things she'd looked for when choosing their initial encounters. But she'd never _seen_. It was never there, right in front of her. Almost tangible, yet so far from her grasp. She wonders if she could reach out and touch it, if she tried. So she does.

"Tony Stark." She lifts her hand, bridging the gap between them, and presses it against his heart. His _real_ heart.

He is warm beneath her palm. Her fingers frame the power source, barely daring to brush its warmed edges. A heartbeat throbs against her fingertips.

Life. It travels in echoes up her arm, heat blooming in her chest and spreading as she reaches out for the soul beneath her hands.

_He lies at the heart._

Loki looks back into Stark's ever piercing gaze and smirks. "So." She lets a playful tone creep into her voice. "Even ordinary men can create the exceptional."

Stark blinks for a moment, and then, slipping out of sincerity back into whimsy just as easily as she, he grins.

"Ordinary?" he pretends to sputter. "No, I don't see any ordinary men here. Just me."

"Oh?" Loki lets her hand trail down his chest and leans in to nip at his ear. "Then prove it to me."

* * *

When Loki was young, perhaps in early adolescence, he used to hide out in the grand library to avoid sparring practice, or swordplay, or some other equally boorish task. He used to climb to the sixteenth floor, he remembers. Few people ever bothered to go up that far, and those that did were usually the old scholars, expecting silence and serenity just as much as Loki sought it.

There he would tuck himself away, nestle into one of great windows and let the sunlight stream down on him as he read, pages sun warmed beneath his fingertips, rough and well-worn with use.

They'd smelled of the earth, his books. Of dirt, and wood, and tea, and fire, and adventure. Rustic elegance, he'd considered. The perfect marriage of nature and intellect. Sometimes he thought he could almost smell the pine of the woods from which they'd come, but he knows now it had only been the product of his own overactive imagination.

His father Odin would sometimes bring him back exotic books from the foreign realms, and although these occasions were few and far between, he cherished each gift with reverence. They were his windows into another existence, a looking glass into worlds whose were nothing like his own, and the first time he had held one it was hard for him to comprehend that _this_, the object in his own two hands, rough binding, pages, ink and all, this had come from a place so far from his own, where primitive peoples toiled and burned and suffered, and _still_ they dared to reach up and rise and dream of something better.

Something beyond them.

Something _more_.

He was never able to fully wrap his mind around it, until he was old enough to travel himself and reality shattered his romantic notions.

There is no "something better", he knows now. And all of these men, waiting around in their studies with their lofty ideas and benevolent aspirations, died in worlds hardly touched by the impressions they'd intended to make.

He wonders what has become of it, his small collection. He wonders if he could still bear to look at it now, wonders if they would remind him of sunlit alcoves or if he would only see the face of the man who'd given them to him, unyielding as he fell away into the abyss.

"If you fall asleep on that and wrinkle the pages, I'll have to demand compensation."

Loki's eyes blink open.

The textbook in her lap is lit with the glow of an artificial seascape on Stark's wall, pages coated with factory gloss and the scent of processed chemicals.

There is nothing spiritual here. No transformative power. It is gone. The humans have killed this, too.

Her eyes turn to Stark, who is awaiting a reply with a playful look on his face.

"Sweet dreams?"

Loki snaps the book shut, stretches dramatically, and curls up around herself.

"Good morning," she says.

Stark glances down at her title and lets out a hefty whistle. "Bit early in the morning for Intro to E & M*, don't you think? Besides-" he tilts his head curiously, "I thought you didn't do staying."

Loki rolls her eyes. "Well, obviously I make exceptions." She turns her attention back to the book, picks it up, and waves it at him. "Lend me this."

Stark shrugs. "Whatever floats your boat, babycakes." He rolls out of the bed haphazardly, yawning as he blunders over to his ostentatiously sized wardrobe and disappears inside.

What he does _not_ do is mention that for her to return the book, they'd have to meet again.

"So, Mrs. I-Wanna-Be-A-Scientist," calls his voice from the back of the closet, "Why aren't you one?"

Loki's eyes tighten.

"What?"

There's a scuffling sound, and then Stark emerges wearing a worn cotton shirt with short sleeves and faded lettering down the front.

"Hey, no need to get snippy." He raises his hands. "I was just wondering 'cause you mentioned it yesterday, and today you're up reading physics books at the crack of dawn. Don't answer if it twists you the wrong way."

Loki lowers her gaze. Technically she'd hadn't lied. Even as a child she'd wanted to be a mage, the closest equivalent Asgard had to a "scientist". The deception lay in the implication that she had failed to become one.

She hadn't corrected him. But she hadn't lie.

She doesn't lie now, either.

"My father never did much care for my interest in the sciences," she says, voice tight. "My brother and I were both raised to run an empire. That left little time for other passions, even if only one of us could inherit it in the end."

"Hah," Stark muses, expression guarded. "The children of a true business mogul," he assumes, as Loki knew he would. "Sounds like it didn't end up so hot for you in the end."

Loki looks at him squarely.

"I am-,"

_Jotun._

"-a woman."

"Mm." Stark gazes at her for a moment. He turns away, some unreadable emotion swirling behind his eyes, and crosses the room. He makes as if to grab the door handle, hesitates, and then turns back, fishing for something in his pockets.

"You got a name, honey?" He holds up his phone, jiggling it between his fingers. "Cuz right now I've got you in here under Sexy Snow White, and that can't be right, can it?"

Loki smiles.

"Laura," she lies to him, for the first time. "Laura Baranelli."


End file.
